


Did You Know, I Prayed For You?

by D20Owlbear



Series: Love and Joy and Happiness [6]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Priests, Author is also autistic, Aziraphale continues to be oblivious, Aziraphale is autistic, Crowley is plants to Aziraphale, Crowley was Incarcerated(tm) previously, Crowley's already gone on Aziraphale, M/M, Poor sod, Priest Aziraphale (Good Omens), Priest Crowley (Good Omens), Priests AU, and therefore they're already touchy with each other, first year into Father Crowley's tenure in Chichester with Father Fell, gayforgoodomens priests au inspired, i do not take criticism about that either, no I don't take criticism, no i won't explain that, they're both equally touch starved and lonely, things are said and acknowledged
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-18
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-03-17 04:01:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28842783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/D20Owlbear/pseuds/D20Owlbear
Summary: The church and the laity aren't always the most understanding, Aziraphale knew that. And he knew that he was, perhaps, the one to blame for his forays and distractions.But then came Father Crowley, who did not cast aspersions nor did he sigh in disappointment; he simply... helped. He helped around the church and took on half the cooking duties, and made sure Aziraphale didn't forget himself if he could and quickly became someone to keep Aziraphale from falling apart on his own.In which new things are learned and shared.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Love and Joy and Happiness [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1938955
Comments: 14
Kudos: 69





	Did You Know, I Prayed For You?

**Author's Note:**

> As mentioned in the tags, in this Aziraphale is autistic, he masks very well in similar ways that afab autistic people tend to because of how (I imagine) he was brought up and the things he was encouraged. Reading and old books are very likely one of his first and biggest special interests! It's also, in part, why he doesn't tend to realize the things Crowley implies with his actions at times and can come across as oblivious.
> 
> Not particularly important in this particular one, but it's how I've been writing him the whole time and does explain some things in this chapter if anyone was curious.

Aziraphale ran his fingers over the altar, he was knelt before it and his knees were numb even through the padding of his little, well-used prayer bench. It had been a gift, so many years ago, after he'd graduated seminary and was taken up by the diocese he grew up in. In that time the woodwork had been repaired twice and the bench reupholstered thrice, as it was still sturdy and… truthfully, he couldn't justify a new one when this old thing worked perfectly fine.

But today he couldn't seem to make himself care much about his knees or how his elbows chafed in his sleeves from the wooden rail for his arms, nor how his stomach grumbled from his fast. He hadn't meant to fast, he rarely fasted unless required, but occasionally it simply came upon him, overcome with a serenity in meditation that was extraordinarily difficult to break from. _It is good,_ he sometimes thought to himself, _that I am a priest rather than any other sort of man, because I do not believe other vocations are quite so understanding of finding oneself lost in meditation._

That was another thing, it wasn't always so understanding, or hadn't been. He'd had things that needed doing and schedules that needed keeping, parishioners that needed tending as the flock of Christ. But he had Father Crowley now, who never seemed to get caught up like Aziraphale did, never seemed to find himself layered in molasses and on his knees for hours at a time before the altar, unable to do anything but _think_. He was lucky, Aziraphale often said to himself, both aloud and not, that Crowley had come to his parish and was more than happy to take up the slack when Aziraphale found himself like this. Crowley didn't take offense either, didn't presume that it was some sort of holier-than-thou show, or an act of self flagellation that was meant to be shoved into the faces of others to prove he was… Aziraphale didn't know, actually, what it was supposed to mean about him.

He was used to people misinterpreting the things he did. Aziraphale had learned rather quickly to be careful with his words, to be giving and loving and _kind_ more than he was truthful, and that came across as tactful well enough. He'd learned not to ask questions at all if he could help it, just in case any of them were difficult and he hadn't known before he asked. All too often it was expected that he would know somehow without having asked at all. So, curiosity was tamped down, and he read instead; filled himself with engaging stories of interesting people who acted in ways that were explained. Sometimes the actions of certain people were just as much of a mystery to the main characters as people in general were for Aziraphale.

Crowley didn't do that, though. Didn't drive Aziraphale to his books with disappointment hanging heavy in his eyes, didn't make Aziraphale feel like he was lacking in some way or like he couldn't share the things he loved. In fact, Crowley dove down right there with him, he didn't ask questions or protest when Aziraphale insisted on buying from outdoor markets from local vendors nigh on exclusively, didn't call him fussy or prissy unless it was accompanied by a smile so exceedingly fond even Aziraphale could see it. And that- that was the crux of it, wasn't it?

Aziraphale breathed deeply and came back to himself with a lurch. When had… when did it get dark? He frowned at himself and pulled out his little "brick" phone with the tiny, adorable keys and lit up the screen to check the time. The acid green glow of old technology made him blink blearily and sigh heavily once he could see the numbers innocently blocky in the top corner of the screen. Twelve hours. He hadn't moved for twelve hours and Aziraphale was sure it did him absolutely no favors. He groaned and eyed the stone steps behind him warily, if he stood too quickly he'd likely just fall down them in a stupid clump. He had no desire to be hurt, especially more than he already was sure to be once the circulation returned to his legs.

Leaning down a little to place his hands firmly on the floor, Aziraphale wiggled himself back and onto the stone knowing his legs wouldn't hold him if he attempted to stand too soon, and moaned at the pins and needles flooding the whole of his calves and feet with painful static. The sound echoed on the stone floors and walls, not loud, certainly not, but echoed nonetheless. As it bounced around the room, growing quickly too faint to hear, Aziraphale tried not to feel like it was a failure somehow, burning him for an inability to act normally, _correctly_.

"Aziraphale?" Crowley was quiet behind him and Aziraphale could only bite off a sigh as he thought about how he must look, on his hands and knees on the stone floor, hovering over his damne– his prayer bench.

"Yes?" He replied, his voice sounded flat and hollow, even to himself. And while he didn't quite feel that odd oneness and wholeness that tended to come when he was lost in his… meditations and prayers and too many thoughts for far too long, it was still more distance packed into a single syllable than he would like.

"C'mere," Crowley's voice was much closer now, softer too. Soon after arms were wrapped underneath Aziraphale's and helped him turn to sit on the stairs, Crowley still comfortingly close to his side. The heat of Crowley, who very likely came directly from the kitchen if the smell of warming bread and olive oil and garlic clinging to his clothes was anything to go by, was enough to make Aziraphale shiver and realize just how cold he was. And, just like usual, when the laity were all gone from the grounds and he was allowed to turn the lights low for the comfort of his eyes, Crowley refrained from wearing his sunglasses in the parish itself.

True, Crowley didn't wear them during mass or anything like that, nor any important ceremonies nor sacraments, though it did tend to land him with stirrings of migraines. But all the same, Aziraphale couldn't help but feel pleased at the sight of Crowley's bare face, open and welcoming in his countenance without the heavily tinted things. It felt different too, when they were alone, when there was no one but God and Aziraphale around to see his eyes so clearly.

"Thank you…" Aziraphale murmured, leaning against Crowley's shoulder, letting him bear his weight when the man made no objection to it (and, in fact, Crowley shifted his weight and where his hand was planted on the floor behind them so that Aziraphale could curl against him more easily).

"God tell you the meaning of the world yet? And the one joke about dinosaurs?" Crowley asked, well after the last of Aziraphale's thanks died out in the air between them. He asked just as he always did ever since he'd come across Aziraphale like that the first time, cheerily and with a dusting of mischief over his face like freckles, copious and delightfully charming.

"No, no," Aziraphale chuckled, feeling like the color leached out of him was slowly starting to bleed back and fill him up where blood was meant to be, "Nothing of the sort. Just… thinking of old things. I suppose."

"Oh?" Crowley asked, but didn't pry nor did he press about Aziraphale's meaning, which never failed to make gratitude bloom in Aziraphale's chest and loosen up all the worries perpetually clogged up in there like so much old newspaper. He didn't have to share, he never _had_ to share with Crowley.

He always wanted to though, these days.

"About you, mostly."

"Can't stop thinking about this ugly mug, hm?" Crowley waggled his eyebrows outrageously and his eyes sparked bright with their mirth, so Aziraphale should be forgiven for the much-too-loud bark of laughter that left him, he thought.

"Hardly ugly, dear. But I digress, I was thinking on how it was before you came here, and how things have changed."

"Good things… I hope." Crowley's voice was so small by the end the hope was nearly nonexistent.

Aziraphale turned to him sharply and grabbed Crowley's face in his hands until he looked at Aziraphale, really _looked_ at him. He couldn't have said for the life of him what possessed him to grab Crowley so boldly, but after a year of living full time with the man underfoot and in his kitchen and by his side, Aziraphale rather thought it was best this way.

" _Of course_ ," Aziraphale breathed, hoping desperately that every ounce of the bone-deep affection he held in his heart, all the vine-like, blooming gratitude in his chest, and every single bit and scrap of sentiment scraped out of his soul were in those words. "Of course, they're all good things. I hardly know how I got along without you… I will say, dear boy, that you've become a bit integral to me, unfortunately. I couldn't say how I'll manage if you decide to go off or the Lord calls you away I–"

Crowley jerked forward in Aziraphale's hands, leading with his head, and Aziraphale looked up from where his eyes had lowered down to Crowley's jaw to meet his gaze again. There was something immeasurable in them, they were sad and desperate and seven hundred other things all at once in stunning amber eyes lit up by the light from the hallway off to the side that lead to their living quarters and a bit of that ever-present spark inside him Crowley always carried so well.

"I won't," Crowley said breathlessly, he sounded choked and Aziraphale quickly removed his hands just in case he was pressing on his neck and hadn't noticed, "I won't. Go, that is, I don't want to I– my life is better too, you know. With you in it…"

Aziraphale smiled joyfully, a soft thing that felt like spring rains and wildflowers dotting grassy knolls, rolling gently and comfortingly in his chest. The kind of joy that took root and integrated itself into the landscape permanently. Crowley was there, Aziraphale knew, taking root in him and if he were to be ripped out and Aziraphale lost his best friend for whatever reason it may be, he'd erode away for the lack of him.

"I'm glad, Crowley," Aziraphale whispered, the air between them felt tenuous, or perhaps tense, but in a way that invigorated Aziraphale rather than making him feel anxious or cowed, and he didn't wish to break it. "I'm glad to hear it… you really _are_ dear to me, you know." Aziraphale reached out to take Crowley's hand gently, clasped it in one of his, and was content to let his elbow rest on his knee and chafe again at the inside of his sleeve where it had rubbed and pressed into the fibers for too many motionless hours sitting on the rail, and this too felt like prayer of some kind, or a meditation.

"I know," Crowley croaked, and when Aziraphale turned his face to look at him again, Crowley had covered it up with his hand, elbow propped up on his knee, looking like any statue of an agonized thinker if not for the stupid grin on his face, only partially hidden by the heel of his palm.

"I prayed for you." Aziraphale confessed abruptly, the words tumbling from his mouth faster than he could stop them, and he could feel the blush high on his cheeks when Crowley's hand spasmed in his own.

"I, yeah– sure, I mean, I pray for you too–"

"Oh, well, like that too, but that's far more normal, I think, to pray for the health and wellbeing and the like for someone you know and like. But I meant before you got here, for longer than I've known you, I've prayed that you would come here."

"How do you mean?"

"It was… I don't know if you've ever been isolated, Crowley, set aside from people who may otherwise have been your peers and wholly your equal but either they have authority over you, or you do over them, and so therefore they cannot be your contemporaries in any meaningful way. Not– not in the way that drives off loneliness.

"I spent years," Aziraphale confided softly, his consonant rounding and vowels curling on his lips and his very Sussex accent thickening like a roux in cream until it felt almost ungainly, "Praying to the Lord for someone to come to me. Who could be my equal and my confidante and my friend, who would relieve me of this burden of aloneness that my loneliness grew and festered in me until it was painful to my spirit to live in every passing hour that I didn't have you."

"Yeah," Crowley agreed, whispering too. It sounded more like a heavy breath than a word, really. Crowley raised his head from his hand and _looked_ at Aziraphale in a way that made him feel raw and flayed open and bare and all the Great and Terrible ordeal of being _perceived_ and known convalesced in his throat until his breath was restricted so that he could not speak for the largeness of it inside him.

"Yeah, I get it." Crowley looked away, up to the stained glass across the nave from where they stood –where the morning sunrise was the most beautiful, filtered through a mosaic of glass and clever lead in the shape of a lamb lying beneath an apple tree– and suddenly Aziraphale could breathe again. "I prayed for you too, I think. Before I thought of it as prayer."

"When you were– I mean, no, sorry. You don't have to answer that, of course, it was insensitive of me–" Aziraphale fretted quietly and rubbed his thumb soothingly over the fabric of his cassock covering the front of his thigh, firm and steady and repetitive.

Crowley squeezed Aziraphale's hand still clasped with his, and smiled softly. Aziraphale stopped needing to brush his fingers over his leg to steady himself.

"It's alright. I'm not… well, I _am_ ashamed of it, but not for any reason that would make me upset to tell you. Maybe not all of it right now." Crowley chuckled and Aziraphale frowned to himself, unsure if Crowley had meant to laugh meanly at himself or if he was simply putting feelings into places they didn't belong. "But yeah, while I was incarcerated. Kept apart a good bit from everyone else and even though I wasn't about to make friends or anything inside, didn't want to either, it was still… lonely.

"Yeah, the aloneness was lonely, just as often as it wasn't." Crowley continued, "And I'd lay in bed at night, hating how I could hear everyone else, just all the time, shifting and talking and snoring and whatever else it was, and feeling so damned _lonely_ I couldn't breathe with it. And I prayed –or thought real hard without realizing I was trying to put it in the hands of something, some _one_ , bigger than me– that when I got out, I wouldn't have to be that way anymore."

For a long few moments, their long, measured breaths were all the sound in the whole of the room, and Aziraphale didn't have any desire to break it. But then Crowley pulled his hand away, from his pocket came his glasses, hidden away on his person at all times, and placed swiftly onto his face. With a grin that seemed almost fake, or at least too grin-y for Aziraphale to believe it was real, Crowley slapped his thighs with a muffled smack, pushing himself to stand up.

"Alright then," He said and then floundered for a second before reaching out his hands to Aziraphale. "C'mon up. Dinner'll be soon and I know you didn't eat lunch. Bet you didn't have breakfast either, you get up way too early in the morning you know!"

Aziraphale smiled and didn't say anything more than a polite "Yes, dear," and took Crowley's hands to be pulled up out of whatever mood had taken hold of him before, feeling a little like that moment of dizziness that came with being baptized bodily in water as one was thrust above the surface to break the flatness of the water above and allowed to take a breath in.

He breathed. Once, twice, and then again and again until it became a habit in this new life of his.


End file.
